


permanent revery

by liquidsky



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood As Lube, Blood Drinking, Bottom Dean Winchester, Dark Sam Winchester, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Demon Dean Winchester, Episode: s10e03 Soul Survivor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:27:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22037047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liquidsky/pseuds/liquidsky
Summary: Years and years down the line, and Sam's finally learned his lesson – wherever Dean leads, he'll follow.He'll follow him into this, too.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 6
Kudos: 62





	permanent revery

**Author's Note:**

> like, alright, i didn't think this would need a dead dove: do not eat tag, but apparently it does. so... there's that!

Sam's surprised by how easy it is, once he makes up his mind.

+

He looked, before, in the seemingly infinite stretch of time between discovering Dean was a demon and finally having him in his custody, shackled to a chair in the bunker. He searched for a cure—desperately, days and nights blurring into each other as he sprawled over too many books, interrogated too many people; he did what he could, every second of every day until he found one. The thing was, he had only ever found the one. Purified blood, a transfusion. Changing Dean slowly until he became Dean again. Sam thought it would work, hoped against hope that it would because the alternative was a grim, miserable impossibility, and Sam knew from the get go that if it didn't he'd let Dean kill him and get away with it. He loves him too much–a black hole of desperation, always growing, somehow, swelling unremittingly until Sam felt it like an ever present _ache_ under his ribs. He loves Dean enough to kill for him, and to die for him, but it still falls short when it matters. 

Dean says whatever he does– _you're a burden, Sammy_ , and Sam thinks _yes, but I am your burden_. He got Lester killed, Dean tells him, and it hurts, a little, a small prickle of guilt that is inconsequential in the face of Dean snarling up at him from his chair, black-eyed, struggling against the chains; Sam bats it away, the guilt. It doesn't belong here and Sam can't bring himself to care because Dean _does,_ even as he's hurling words his way, carving a dent in Sam's memories one revision at a time. He doesn't quite care that it's not Dean either—Dean wouldn't say this, because _Dean_ would gladly let the world die if it meant he could have Sam, and Sam's the smart one, he _knows_ this. He lets him say it, though, waiting for the cure to work. 

And then it doesn't.

Dean laughs, once he realizes, so Sam leaves the room, calls Cas, thinks about killing Dean. Decides with sudden, sparkling clarity that he won't. But he's _not_ –he's not going to die either. Whatever is waiting for him on the other side can't hold a candle to this. Their shitty, dreadful lives, stumbling from one suicide mission to the next, bearing the weight of the world on their shoulders long enough that they've started to cave. Sam's tired— _exhausted_ —but he won't rest unless Dean does, and, whatever comes next, Sam knows he won't.

He goes back inside, looks at Dean properly. He's Dean, still—his brother, freckled and sun-kissed, blonde stubble and all. Dean, turned inside out, almost, reckless anger sliding down his skin, pooling in each crevice; his collarbones, the space between his fingers. 

Years and years down the line, and Sam's finally learned his lesson – wherever Dean leads, he'll follow.

He'll follow him into this, too. 

+

He knows first-hand how easy it is to fall back into old habits. 

It's so _familiar,_ too, how smoothly the first gulp goes down—the rich, metallic taste sweetening his throat—and so Sam notices too late that his hands are shaking where they're clutching blood-slick shoulders, forcing them down against the gravel. He hadn't been out of the bunker in days, and the cold wind scrapes the side of his face, makes his nose twitch. He rubs a hand across his mouth, slumps down next to the still-twitching meatsuit the demon's trying to break free of. Sam doesn't let it; with a swift, brisk stab the demon's eyes burn bright orange, then it's gone, and Sam's left with a body, a pool of blood around him, staining his cheeks and his neck and making his flannel stick uncomfortably to his torso. 

His knees hurt, and his insides _burn_ , but he feels good. That's something he forgot over time, just how good it feels – bright and hot, curling around the pit of his stomach, a thick stream of undiluted _power_ joining the blood in his veins. He's lightheaded, sort of, and he knows enough about how it goes to realize he's still got two more to drink through before he's ready to go back to Dean. 

So he does. 

The second demon comes easily enough, affronted, arrogance warping the air around it. Almost cute, how it doesn't see it coming—Sam slices its throat open, shoves down until he's looming over the body and taking long, nauseating gulps. Its legs kick, trying to push Sam away, but as more and more power seeps into him, Sam barely has to move a finger before the demon's struck still, heaving wet breaths that Sam wants to laugh at. 

He recognizes it, the slow descent into something other than himself; he's never been particularly given to cruelty, but he's laughing, still, giddier by the second. When it's done, he stabs the demon more times than necessary, and it feels – good. 

The third is a challenge. Or would be, weren't Sam full already, blood churning in his stomach; he cocks his head, and the demon falls on its knees. Sam smirks, a small, private thing. He tosses it a blade, says, "Why don't you do it yourself, this time," and watches as the demon _does,_ slitting its own throat and choking on blood, gurgling sounds echoing through the empty parking lot until Sam's kneeling down too and lapping at the wound, closing his lips over it. Sucking until the demon's slumping against him, then he kills it; easy as anything. 

He drives back to Dean in blood-soaked clothes, warm and freezing cold at once, so full of power his hands are twitching against the wheel, and his heart is beating too fast. Inhumanly fast, really, and Sam pushes through it, leans into it, inhaling deeply and breathing back out. He turns on the radio, taps his fingers to a loud, messy rhythm he sort of hates until he's pulling up to the bunker and calling Dean's name as he walks down to see him. 

+

Dean's face is amused when Sam opens the door; it shifts into curious when he sees him, though, black eyes cataloguing the blood he's drenched in, the matted mess Sam's made of his hair, his stained lips. Sam smiles at him, and Dean waits him out long enough for it to stretch into a smirk.

Calculatingly, Dean watches as Sam frees him from the chains; it's a loaded second, a still-frame, then Dean's pouncing, taking a swing at Sam with an open snarl. Sam lets himself fall to the floor, lets Dean grab hold of a knife, lets him look at the sprawl of Sam's body and make his decision. Sam just lets him, staring up at his big brother with violence thrumming under his skin, power shifting restlessly until Dean's kneeling between the spread of Sam's legs, gripping the gross collar of Sam's t-shirt and pulling him up just enough. Sam lets him—Dean's eyes flick back to green once before they're black again, and Sam spreads his legs wider, almost unconsciously, then Dean lifts his arm and -

He freezes halfway down, knife in hand—Sam barely has to blink at him, and Dean looks confused for a second, trying to push through the compulsion, and Sam just. He laughs, can't help it, "Oops," he says, "did you have other plans?" 

He doesn't move a muscle, and Dean's flying through the air and slumping against the floor – knife clattering loudly as it's sent across the room. Sam sits up a little, looks at Dean's scowl as he tries to lean up on his elbows and finds he can't. On his knees, Sam crawls over to him, pushes him further down with a heavy hand on his chest, and Dean looks more like the Dean he knows in that one split-second of bewilderment than he did in days. Sam sits on him, legs on each side of Dean's body as he settles down over Dean's thighs. He rubs a hand down Dean's chest, feeling crazy, and Dean's eyes clear; he smirks, "Demon blood, huh?" and Sam doesn't _care,_ couldn't care. He shifts forward instead, enough that he's sitting right on Dean's lap, and Dean laughs, "Told you, Sammy, you're even worse than I am." 

"The cure didn't work."

"Think I told you that, too," Dean says; he tries to move, can't, and Sam lets his eyes flash yellow for a second. "Just needed the excuse, didn't you–" 

Dean pushes–an attempt at throwing Sam off; pathetic, really, and Sam pushes _back,_ hard enough that Dean gasps, choking on air. Sam lets him do that, too, until he starts shaking and Sam lets him breathe again. "Neat trick, Sammy," Dean tells him. He coughs, then, "You'll run out of juice eventually, though, just gotta wait to kill you then." 

Sam cocks his head at him, says, "You're not killing me," with his hand snaking up to cradle Dean's neck. Sam smiles, and Dean's arms fly up, so Sam leans more heavily into him, hands circling each of his wrists. "And I don't see how that'll happen – got everything I need right here."

He hears Dean scoff at him, but he doesn't pay it any mind; he grinds down against Dean, mouth pausing over the side of his face. Dean's eyes flash green again with Sam that close to him, and he just—"Wherever you're going next, I'm coming with." 

"Thought I told you this before, Sammy," Dean meets his eyes, "You're a burden, and I don't want you." 

He did say it – Sam feels the echo of it resonating through him, an endless, swirling thought, too cruel, lead weight on his gut; he knows Dean, though, his one constant, "I'm _your_ burden," Sam tells him, "And you're wrong; you only ever want me."

From under Sam, Dean freezes. A split second, again, barely a crease in the fabric of time, but Sam feels it like a bump in the road, a sharp up and down, with gravity ripping him open until the spillover reaches Dean, too. 

"Sammy," Dean starts, sounding—wrong, not like him then, not like him now. Different, "Let me go." 

Sam tells him _no_ , presses Dean's wrists so hard against the floor that the skin breaks. Dean heaves out a loud breath, eyes black again, and Sam's made his decision. The final one—no take-backs—"You're mine, too. Not," he stumbles, "not hell's, or Crowley's." 

"Sam–" 

The words die on his tongue, and Sam licks his stained lips, reaches with his mind until the knife floats through the air all the way back to him. Staring right at Dean, he cuts him on the cheek—a small thing, barely there. Blood blooms to the surface when Sam pushes a finger against it; he licks the finger first, humming. Dean squirms, and Sam gives up the ghost and licks the side of his face, tip of his tongue poking the wound. Dean makes a noise, and it sounds far away. 

His eyes are glassy when Sam looks at him, and his chest is moving. 

"You're mine," Sam tells him, then he lets go completely, power and compulsion retreating, off Dean and back into his own mind. Dean shoves him away, and Sam just—he doesn't move, closes his eyes when Dean grabs the knife, waits for it. 

It doesn't come; instead, he feels the light sting of a cut on his forearm, a warning flash before Dean's full weight is falling over Sam, settling in his lap. He pulls Sam's arm up, closes his mouth around the cut and _pulls_ —Sam's blood spills a little from the corner of Dean's mouth, and he grinds up almost despite himself, mouth going slack when Dean follows his movement, circles his hips down leisurely, a steady, sure pace that Sam has to grit his teeth against. He lets go of Sam's arm eventually, licking the blood off his lips; Sam stops moving, and waits.

Slowly, Dean leans into him, inch by inch until he's breathing warmly right over Sam's lips. He moves forward, slick lips sliding over Sam's. If he meant for anything simple, that isn't it. Sam pulls Dean down, parts his lips and lets the taste of his own blood flood his mouth as Dean's tongue curls against his, and heaven, hell, he was right; the right choice is this, the only one, Dean biting down on his lips, a little mean, a lot cruel, hands shoving Sam's ruined flannel away from his body, fumbling with the button of his pants. 

They're a mess of uncoordinated limbs – hands everywhere at once, pulling, pressing and pushing until they're resting naked against each other, bare legs tangling, chests touching. The floor's hard and bruising under Sam's back, and even that feels _good_ , with Dean's fingers curling around his dick and stroking, short and fast, Sam's body arching off the stone, and Dean kisses him, swallows his grunts eagerly until Sam decides that's not all he wants and stops Dean on his tracks with his mind; Dean hovers over Sam for a little while before Sam taps his shoulder and he's the one lying down on the cold floor. Sam spreads Dean's legs with his hands, runs the flat of his tongue over Dean's knees, up his thighs, sucks Dean's balls into his mouth and feels Dean's hand tangle through his hair and pull, too hard, a stinging burst of pain that he welcomes with a muffled moan. He wraps a hand around Dean's dick, and it's too dry–Sam spits on his palm, jerks him off slow and teasing until Dean pulls on his hair again, says, "Sammy—" in a warning tone, and Sam _likes_ it, the possibility, the thrill of barely contained violence when Dean's hips snap up so he can try fucking himself on the circle Sam's made of his fingers. 

He breathes Dean in, the musk of him, a hint of sulfur that makes him downright _hungry,_ and he rests his forehead on Dean's thigh and inhales sharply until his mind's gone foggy and he's _biting_ , hearing Dean's useless protests getting louder. He breaks the skin eventually, jaw sore, and Dean's hand is curled into a fist beside his body, the one that's not nearly ripping Sam's hair off his skull. He drinks—lets it wet his lips and slip into his mouth, then out, mixed with spit and staining Dean's thighs a light red. Mouth slick with blood, he curls his tongue over Dean's dick, gets him deep until he's hitting the back of Sam's throat and it's all him; his brother, alive, changed nearly beyond recognition for everyone but Sam, who'd recognize him anywhere, through heaven and hell and whatever may come. 

Dean fucks his mouth recklessly, making Sam choke on it, tears pooling in his eyes and sliding down his cheeks, and Sam doesn't fight him—doesn't want him to stop, not ever, and he only really does once he's spilled in Sam's mouth, down his throat. Sam had never given much thought to how his brother would taste, and yet now he could tell him apart from that alone, the taste of his come, of his blood, of the salt in between his thighs. Another way of knowing—every part of him, and Sam still wants more. 

He crawls over Dean's body, palming the spread of his legs again, fingers dipping past his balls, knuckles on the velvety hairs of his taint, and he's pushing a finger in before Dean can say a word. He doesn't, anyway; instead he breathes out a heavy, worn-out sigh, and leans into Sam's touch like he can't help it. He can, Sam made sure of it, every inch of his influence trapped inside his own brain. This—the cut-off grunts, the welcoming sprawl of him—is all Dean. 

It's a tight fit, tight enough that even wet it would've hurt, a slight burn, but like this is just. Sam finds he doesn't want to hurt him, not like this, so he looks up at Dean, questioning, and draws the knife in his hand when Dean nods, dropping his head against the floor. 

After everything, the cut on his hand doesn't sting, deep as it is, and Sam curls his palm so it slides down into his other hand, a lot of it - slicking his fingers. He shoves his bloody fingers back inside Dean before they have time to dry up, and he knows well enough to move slowly, not a lot of friction, not enough that it stops the slick slide against Dean's muscles. 

Dean huffs when Sam pulls his fingers out, and he looks down—he's not leaving this room without this, so he just. Another cut, his other hand, and Dean offers his too, their blood blending together over Sam's hard dick until he's wet enough, ridiculously red, a sight he never once considered before this, something out of a nightmare, maybe. Or a dream, when he pushes in and Dean _mewls,_ cut-up hand coming to cover his face, nose and cheeks ruined with blood, his lips bitten red and parted around Sam's name, _Sammy, Sammy, Sammy._ He's impossibly tight, but Sam pushes through regardless, watching the fluctuating twitches of Dean's face settle first in pain before melting away to bliss. 

Just once doesn't do the trick—he's got to fuck him slowly, slower than he otherwise would've—and still he bleeds all over himself three, four times, out for a breath then in again, until he's close enough that Dean's voice starts sounding almost warped, far away. He looks down, trying to stay grounded, and Dean's jerking himself off, blood sticking to his pubes, the line of his chest swift and elegant, too close to Sam with how he's arching off the floor, following each deep slide home with a grunt or a groan or a loud, breathy iteration of Sam's name.

When Sam comes, it's enough to throw him off balance, his entire body and maybe some of his soul taut like a bow string, shaking apart. 

Dean shoves him off him before Sam's got a chance to settle over him, but he's giving Sam an amused look, all black, and Sam can't help but laugh a little, "Can't escape me now, Dean." 

"Yeah, yeah," Dean says, "Too fucking used to carrying you, anyway." 

+

Sam's surprised by how easy it is; more blood, more bodies, enough that his eyes barely ever turn green again. All yellow, and he wondered whether he was too late, but he feels like what he has might just do the trick. Hell, under new administration. 

From over his glass, Dean peers at him, curious, says, "What're you thinking, wonder boy?" 

And Sam stares back, nose twitching. Decides he doesn't quite feel like sharing just yet.

**Author's Note:**

> entirely self-indulgent, and also unbeta'd, so any and all typos are my own.


End file.
